Cross Country
by Her Name Is Erika
Summary: Six friends. Six different personalities. Six places they love. Seattle. Boston. California. New York. Atlanta. New Orleans.


**A/N: According to my list, I have this oneshot lined up next. I've had this idea in my head for some time. This actually came to me in a dream, and it hope it works. And I came to the realization that the locations actually work: two are from West, two are from the South and the other two are from the East, so it works out. I'm going to keep this is in the 'canon world', but I have a Chola oneshot planned. It's not definite, but it's taking root there. **

**Disclaimer: I'd be a rich nineteen year old if this were the case. **

* * *

**I. **

You're kind of quirky, smart and unique in that Quinn Pensky sort of way.

Now, you have people telling you, you're also really pretty. All you do is give them a thanks. You're not hideous, but on the side of the spectrum, looks don't really appeal to you. The most you carry in your bag is lip gloss, and the last time you use anything other than lip gloss is for Junior Year prom. You love California, but it's Seattle you call home – right across the 420, where there's a Starbucks on every turn. After all, Seattle has a reputation for coffee consumption.

Your room defines you – you, Quinn Pensky.

The walls are painted orange with purple polka-dotted walls, a lava lamp that gives up a hippie glow, colors intertwined upside down and right side up with the confinement of the lamp. The distinct humming of bubbling concoctions that are contained within beakers – one you start but put on hold because another inventive thought floods your head but you promise yourself this won't have detrimental effects, or have FBI involvement…again. Posters of Einstein and Edison liter your uniquely coloured walls, with your favourite artists and musicians on the other side.

You appreciate doing yoga with your mother as the sun rises in Seattle. You like reading with Otis, and believe it or not, alpacas aren't illiterate. You enjoy helping your father with taxes, and doing them because he's an accountant.

People shouldn't misunderstand, because you really do love California. How could you not? It's where you go to school, it's where you make friends that are bound to be lifelong and you have someone you love and care for very much there.

But it's Seattle you love only slightly more.

Here's another pastime you enjoy.

It defies your logic; everything within you says pneumonia is imminent. Your logic is screaming at you, questioning if you've truly lost it – as the sky above your house is grey with dark clouds that seem to block the sun from making an appearance for the past three days.

"Hello Seattle. This is Marcia Peterson with your weather forecast. There's a chance of rain all week, so get your umbrellas out!"

Seattle is appropriately nicknamed "Rain City".

Your favourite pastime is dancing in the rain – like always, the opinions of others don't matter.

* * *

**II.**

You're a born and raised Californian. Obviously, California is the best state there is.

To be specific, you actually live in Beverly Hills, and no, your zip code isn't 90210. The next person to ask that question will completely ruin your good mood.

And it's not because the governor can totally terminate everyone else's.

You like to tan, surf, and you're never home, even though home is more of an estate. The streets are lined with tall palms trees and you've never experienced snow before or blizzards. You feel at your best when you're driving. Shiny and fast, your car breezes down the road and you're not sure where you're going. You're not sure of where you're headed, but you love to drive.

"Funny, I didn't think I'd give birth to another James Dean," your mother says one day. Most people think she's an older sister because she doesn't look her age at all.

The sun is shining, and the wind is whipping through your hair even though it's perfectly done.

You're hoping your hair will actually listen to you this time when you stop.

You're driving. You're driving. And you're driving some more. You've been prone a few bouts of road rage, but it's completely justified – half of the people on the road don't even deserve licenses anyway. Your car is going up, up, and up the road. You still don't know where the hell you're going, you don't really care. Not today. You don't even bother to look at the girls that hit on you when you stop on a red light, because you really only care about one girl. You could care less where you're going. You take the quickest of glances to realize you just pass a "Now Leaving Beverly Hills" sign.

Oh, your dad will have a fit, and most likely, take away your car.

You realize that you've spent five hours driving from Beverly Hills to Oakland.

Your dad will kill you, but he can't if you visit your grandparents who just happen to live there.

You smirk to yourself because the idea is just so brilliant – cover your ass, and visit relatives on you accord without complaining complete with the usual, "I swear, I didn't do anything this time!"

Oh, and you really love your grandparents. They're funnier than digital cable, and it's like looking into some freaky time machine set to the future – Quinn have to agree with you there if you introduced them to her.

So much for tanning when you get back, though. Damn.

* * *

**III. **

You decide to spend your summer in New Orleans after you go to Hawaii with your best firend-turned-boyfriend.

You're going without your little brother this time because he wants to be with your parents.

The over-protective sisterly side of you reacts almost instantaneously and you are about to panic, and spew out all kinds of reasons why a thirteen-year-old shouldn't be allowed to fly across the Atlantic by himself, even though he's going to see your parents.

"Zoey, Mom and Dad said they would pick me up from the airport as soon as I landed," your brother told you with a slight groan. "And besides, I'm gonna be in the ninth grade next year. You can't baby me forever."

You see the seriousness in his eyes, and your resolve to protect him falters slightly because the reality is Dustin isn't so little anymore. He's grown but you're thankful for the time you have left before he hits his growth spurt and you'll find yourself staring up at him. This is the case, however, so you're glad.

You sigh, and brush the blond bangs out of his eyes due to force of habit. He'll be turning fourteen in October since you have your seventeenth birthday in June. Maybe it's time to ease up a bit but you can't help but be protective. It's always that way ever since you're introduced to your newborn baby brother while your father carries your three-year-old self in his arms. You see the little baby laying there in your mother's arms so tiny with little blonde hairs adorning his little head.

"Go on, sweetie," your mother gently prods when your father places you on the ground. "Say hi to Dustin. He's your new baby brother, Zoey."

"Really Mommy?"

"Yes, sweet pea. You're a big sister now," your dad answers, kissing your hair lightly. "You get to show him big girl things now, and love him, like we already do."

You smile, and gently stroke the baby's hand because he's not a doll this time. You lightly gasp when his little fist curls around your finger, and it clicks on that fall Louisiana day.

You're a big sister, and you love Dustin already.

Ever since, you' always have a need to protect him. You're just wired that way, but there comes a time where you have to see that the newborn baby is now a teenager with his own opinions and aspirations. It'll be hard. He's looking at you expectantly now and you can't help but slightly understand where he's coming from.

"Okay, okay, you've made your point, but," you say, and Dustin rolls his eyes but you pretend not to notice. " – even though Mom and Dad are with you, it would make me feel a lot better if you called or left me a voice message as soon as you got to London."

"Fine, I'll call you. I promise."

You hug him and then release him with a relieved smile on your face, "Thank you."

You're in New Orleans now, the first back since Hurricane Katrina hits nearly three years ago. The sun peaks through the ivory coloured blinds. It makes your eyes flit around underneath your already so heavy eyelids and you find it a chore to open them, but you finally do and blink twice to focus your vision. You yawn lightly, covering your mouth with the back of your hand and then rub your eyes and stretch. You find it weird to be back, especially after Hurricane Katrina. You remember the early days of freshman year when you call frantically to make sure your grandparents are okay. A breath of relief held too long finally escapes you. Miraculously, your grandparents place is one of the few houses unaffected by the hurricane.

Your grandmother walks by the room you always sleep in when you come over, and smiles.

"Morning, dear. Did you sleep well?"

"Morning, Grandma," you reply and nod lightly, getting out of bed and putting slippers on. "Yeah, I did."

"I'm glad," and then she snaps her fingers like she realizes something. "Dustin called earlier, and told me to tell you he's having fun in London."

"Okay, thanks."

"Anytime. Now, go get freshened up. I'll make you some breakfast, and Grandpa's off buying bait to go finishing later out by the lake later," your grandmother explains tell you before you agree to fishing with your grandmother. Your grandmother leaves the doorway and heads downstairs to make you breakfast.

Sighing, you make your bed, your head sort of wondering. Once of your favourite things to do is to is to go out on the lake and fish with your grandfather. It's quiet and it gives you time to think. It gives you time to think and process everything that transpires while you're in California. It's something of a movie – thrilling, suspenseful, almost heart-wrenching that it makes you want to cry, and then the open-ended ending at the movie that is peaceful and serene but with a sense that it's not over yet.

Your eyes flicker over to the framed photo of you and your boyfriend, taken on your last Hawaiian night together – your head is on his shoulder and both of you look off into the sunset but yet you're totally attentive to each other. God, you miss him terribly, but Hawaii is beautiful. After all, you decide you spend it with him in July working, while you fly out to be with your respective families – him in Boston and you right here in New Orleans, where everything is just so relaxed and peaceful even though it's supposed to have a city-like ambience about it.

God, you really need to think. Senior Year is just staring you in the face and college isn't that far away either.

Your thoughts are disrupted by the sound of your stomach rumbling.

It's definitely time to brush teeth and judging by the clanking of dishes from the kitchen, your grandmother is definitely busy.

Heading into the bathroom, your mouth is filled with flavours of cinnamon and spearmint.

You're looking forward to being in California, but life in New Orleans really lives up to be nicknamed "The Big Easy". Life here is just so simplistic and easy, and you'll be sure to enjoy it.

You do miss your boyfriend, however, and will e-mail him when you get back from fishing.

* * *

**IV. **

You live in a house full of women in downtown Atlanta – your grandmother, your parents and three sisters (one older, and two younger). Actually, you live a good twenty minutes from the Turner Field, home of the Atlanta Braves.

People often find it strange when they find out you and your siblings all share the same letter: Monique "Mo", you, Melanie "Mel", and thirteen year old, Malia "LeeLee". It's actually a pretty common thing since your girlfriend is only across the border in Texas, Houston to be exact, and she's the oldest girl of five siblings, again sharing the same letter – Lance, Lisa, Lamar, Lara, and Lynn.

Maybe that's where you get your sensitivity from, but you're sure that's not it. Sure, you're a nice guy and really don't have any enemies but your tear ducts are just way more overactive than others, and you have severe allegories that appear in the form of crying – a prime example while watching _The Notebook_.

Currently, your grandmother's playing 20 Questions with you on the subject of your girlfriend, while your mother holds back an amused smile, while your father is begging her to stop.

"I hope she's a good girl. Raised in a proper home," your grandmother says, and you'd be foolish not to reply since her rage issues are quite notorious – road rage, food rage, outted recipe rage – it's all still there.

"Yes."

"Where's she from?"

"Texas."

"Dallas or Houston?"

"Mom, stop," your father begs. You come to the conclusion that he probably feels guilty for leaving you with a bunch of women you love – well, give or take your sister, Monique.

"Now, I just want to know want to know what kind of relationship my grandbaby has, so hush up!" your grandmother admonishes, before turning to you. "Dallas or Houston, Mikey?"

To everyone at home, you're Mikey. To everyone outside, you're just clacker-lovin', joke crackin' Michael. Maybe it's because you're the only boy at home, and you know most of her recipes inside and out – that's why she's so on you. After all, your snicker doodles are pretty freaking drippin' at the PCA Bake Sale. That's why she expects more out of you, and won't mind terminating your life if you end up being arrested. Or anything else pertaining to such.

"Lisa's from Houston, Grandma."

"Okay. That's good. I approve."

You won't question her about what could be possibly wrong with Dallas, though.

You smile at her, shoveling more mashed potatoes in your mouth. You and Mo argue over something you can't remember, you hear Melanie mutter something along the lines of, "I wish I was adopted" and Malia sighs, rolling her eyes as she finishes and places her dishes in the sink, and walks off. Footsteps go up and a door slam, and minutes later, the water is running in the upstairs bathroom. She's likely taking a bubble bath.

Soon Melanie mutters something else, calling you a "bunch of crazies", and also leaves the table.

Peaches are like Atlanta's fruit. Besides, it's appropriately nicknamed "The Big Peach". Your grandmother peach cobbler is to die for. You have to learn to make it, and then maybe you can bribe Coco into letting you and the guys stay after hours in the girl's dorm.

"Why are you lyin', Mo?" you question, adamantly. "Your breath smells like peaches and digested cobbler!"

"I didn't eat your cobbler! Stop sweatin' me!" Monique says, just as loud. "And what are you doing sniffing my mouth anyway?"

"Look, you don't eat a brother's cobbler! Do you see me go all up in your Slim Quick?"

"Well, the way you eat, you NEED Slim Quick!"

"Aha!" you point an accusing finger at her, because you find an alleged motive as to why your sister allegedly digests a lone piece of cobbler sitting in the fridge – only to find a plate with crumbs. "That's a confession! You did eat it!"

"I didn't eat it!"

Michael narrows his eyes, "The fork fits, Mo."

You quickly realize that it's just you and Mo at the table now after the adults can't be bothered to separate you two, and actually clarify who eats the lone piece of cobbler.

This is typically what transpires in the Barrett household, but this is what you live for.

You love Atlanta, but you love cobbler as well, and if you don't get it, then that's really flumpy.

* * *

**V.**

You never really adapt to California.

You love the sense of freedom it gives you, but you never really conform to the West. Maybe it has something to do with that East Coast blood in your veins right now, even though you spend the first half of your summer with your girlfriend. Honestly, you're still on that Hawaiian high and just from finally being her boyfriend. You get to have your first date without an annoying technical support guy or a pending international murder case because Colin_ so_ has it coming. Even so, you're dating her now and you can only wonder what will happen next. You'll be with her in California but you are a true Boston kid.

You know you're back in Boston when the natural tension between the Yankees and the Red Sox is pretty thick, seeing anti-Yankee merchandise on every street corner even though it's more concentrated in the downtown core. You conclude that it would be a terrible time to tell your parents – both BU alumni – that you actually have your heart set on NYU. Thankfully, you won't be sold in child labour for that because it's illegal now.

Your mother dotes on you and your fraternal twin sister, Nora. She's one of the most caring people in the world, and one of the best mothers ever, but under no circumstances is she allowed to cook or even attempt it. The only edible thing she can probably put together is ice – you really do, but she shouldn't be allowed.

Usually, your dad does all the cooking and it's edible. Either that, you go out to eat.

Now, in honour of you being home, your mom wants to cook.

You and Nora exchange looks because your mother's notorious for making strange things – strange oddly coloured things. Last time you're introduced to one of your mother's culinary creations, you're wondering if the mystery thing on your plate winks at you or if you're just hallucinating.

Nora's face merely flushes to a colour that paler that she already is. Her hair is dyed

"Okay, in honour of Chase coming home, and because I'm happy both of my children are home," your mother says, wide grin in place. " – I'm cooking tonight."

"Mom, you don't have to," you say in a voice that has a twinge in pleading. "You really _don't_ have to."

Nora laughs, nervously, "I'm not even that hungry anyway."

Your dad coughs and masks it by clearing his throat, "Liz, you really don't have to. We could all just relax as family, while staying away from the kitchen. As far away as possible."

"Richard, why would I do that?"

"Mom," Nora says, sternly. "If you love us, you won't cook tonight."

"I second that!" you chime in with an affirmative nod. You can feel your stomach twitch from under you, and you place your arm discreetly over it in a lazy manner. Even your very second recoils from the thought of your mother's cooking inhabiting it. You lean over and whisper to Nora. "My stomach's scared."

"I got my tongue pierced, so I didn't have to eat her food until it healed," she whispers back, and you find that surprising – you're not into the whole piercing thing, but you believe Nora's the evil twin because she wants you to get a tattoo with you. You're just not a tattoo kind of guy, and she's really teetering on pushing your buttons and making you cave.

"But I love you a little more, so I will," your mother says, and smiles. "I've been experimenting with tofu, because I can feel this family can eat healthier, so I'm off to the kitchen."

Waiting until your mother bounds into the kitchen out of sight, you and your sister turn your heads to find your father frantically going through his pockets until he finds his wallet. He cranes his neck around the corner and the sound of your mother humming as she clanks around in the kitchen. He pulls out money, and counts it under his breath before coming to the total of one hundred dollars.

"Okay," he says, quickly. "Chase, fifty for you. Nora, fifty for you. Now, get out of here while you can. I love your mom, but I'm tired. She's even twisted my arm to make Chester eat it when she doesn't look."

Your jaw drops, eyes wide, "What did Chester ever do to _you_?"

Your sister sighs, black hair held in a clip with fringed bangs going over the eyes that match yours. You don't look alike, but you share small similar features such as having an odd formation of little brown freckles. You seriously don't want to discuss the location of yours. That formation stays hidden since your toddler days – the days where you and Nora share a bathtub and you both get soapy. There are pictures you sort of want to burn sometimes.

"It's true, sadly, but he knows to run away now."

You train him well enough, and you're relieved, despite his tendency to disappear and then come back, hours later like at right now, "Smart dog."

"What about you, Daddy?"

"I'll deal with it," your father replies. "Besides, your mother's been buggin' me for a romantic dinner anyway," he pats his stomach stiffly, plastering a fake smile because sadly, no one in your family is brave enough to tell your mother that her cooking tastes like a dirty sock. Not the kind of day where it's a slight brown on the bottoms. It's a kind of dirty that resembles the socks Logan wears out, and then ends up underneath your bed. That degree of gross, but no one's going to tell her.

"The tofu loaf is coming along great!" your mother walks around the corner, smiling proudly.

"Can't wait, honey."

"My taste buds and I are anticipating it," you say automatically, while keeping the money discreetly in your hand behind your back. You're almost expecting Nora to follow suit, but it doesn't come. You almost discreetly nudge her and it gets her attention. She's burning holes in your face, but she catches your mother's raised eyebrows in silent questioning.

"Oh yeah. Mmm, tofu loaf. Mom, you just do what you do."

"Thanks, honey," your mother says, smiling brightly before you hear a slight sputtering. "Ooh, I'd get back into there. I know you'll love it."

Your mother bounds back into the kitchen, and it's a typically Matthews household thing to do.

When you and Nora are bounding up the stairs to run away from the food your mother is making, then you're really back home in Boston because weird occurrences like this are typical.

It won't hurt to take a walk in Boston, and hang out with Nora on the side.

You miss her.

* * *

**VI. **

You always have stars in your eyes.

You're a total city girl which is true since you hail from New York City. It's a place where there's a lot of hustle and bustle. Taking your own car isn't wise, but instead the only mode of transportation makes the honking New York City look like a sea of yellow due to the number of New York cabs. You decide you want to walk the streets of New York alone because your mother takes your little sister for a doctor's appointment. Instead, the sun is shining making your shades cover your eyes.

And not only that, you have an audition for a purse commercial, just a merely stepping stone.

You're on Broadway, and are certain that you will shine here. You have such a passion for theatre, such a drive for the arts that you're sure you can play any part you want. In all honestly, you want to play the villain. You love it – channeling whatever "dark side" you have and putting it into a role. Theatrics are seriously your life. This may sound incredibly cheesy, but all of the chunky peanut butter in the world can't compare to how much acting has become a part of you.

One day, the world will see your name on the marquee, shining in bright lights for the entire world to see. One day, Lola, you think, one day. Still, you want to be on television, looking glamorous and pretty. You want to have a Golden Globe Award in your grasp, curled around your manicured fingers.

You pull the handles to the theatre doors and come upon a front desk. Your heart is beating loudly against your rib cage and you swallow thickly, securing the strap of your tote bag.

"Hi, I'm Lola Martinez. I'm here for the commercial audition," you introduce, sticking your sunglasses in the recesses of your bag. You flash the lady your brightest, most charismatic smile.

"Okay," the woman named Louise, as identified by her silver tag replies, tapping a few keys on the keyboard, because she smiles at you. She hands you a sticker with a number on it – number 45092. "Good luck, Lola. Please go into Studio A, and wait."

"Thanks," you say brightly, but you can't help but be nervous. Discreetly taking a couple of deep breaths, you put one of those acting techniques to good use. You channel the nervous energy running around into good adrenaline that will give you the drive and energy to deliver the most touching monologue to date. You've even timed it so you know when to cry.

A big wooden door is marked Studio A, like Louise says.

"You can do this, Lola. You can do this," you assure yourself with one more deep cleansing breath.

You're waiting to audition among hundreds of other girls, and you want the world to see you under the spotlight.

It's destiny.

It's your destiny. Broadway, here you come.

* * *

**A/N: I hope you enjoyed this. I didn't intend for this to be so long, but like most of my things, it developed a mind of its own. So, here. I did some research, so I hope I got the facts right. I'm sorry if there are errors, but I'm at a crunch for time and can't really look at it. I just hope it's readable, and you all enjoy it. **

**Reviews, and nice insightful ones, would be nice for me to get. Since, I'm snowed it over here, but it's all good. **

**-Erika **

**PS. I'm totally pumped for Barack Obama's inauguration on Tuesday! Anyone else?**


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